Gazing Out Across the Sky
by Rowna Seria
Summary: A non-linear reflective piece of Holmes and Watson and the truly final end (or perhaps, begining.) My first complete fic in a good long while, so constructive criticism is quite welcome.


A/N: I shuffled my original top author's not to the bottom because it's wordy, weird, and well, bleeding typical of me in one of my more confusing, rambling moods and that just makes it a real bitch to read. So, read, enjoy if you please, and review if you've something to say.

Disclaimer: Practically all of my knowledge on Holmes and Watson come from the original stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and a little I have gleaned from the meaning behind the words for myself. The characters of the maid and the butler are simply pulled out of the air, I haven't taken the time to flesh them out, so they are based of a general idea of what such people would be like. Meaning, similarities to other characters and real people is incidental. The idea came to me late at night from my crazy little head, do forgive me.

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Gazing Out Across the Sky

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The sky was gray with clouds and the air was damp from the last nights drizzle. Around there lay a countryside of scrub, grass and stones rising and falling along many hills. She walked, unconcerned of the damp earth on the gravel road, walking with a purpose, plain gray clothes matching the gloom of the day. Her hair was tucked up in a tight bun just beneath her hat, lightly threaded through with gray, and in her hands she held a small reticule. She did not wish to spend more time away from her charge than she needed to, but it was necessary to make some arrangements for the inevitable, so she walked swiftly along what was a three-hour journey.

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The warm sunlight streamed in through the window and shone softly upon the interior of the house. It was little more than a cottage, but well furnished with old comfortable chairs, bright rugs and trinkets from so many years around the shelves and drawers along the walls. A fireplace stood to one side, but the hearth was swept clean for it was just beginning to become a fine summer. Everything in the house held this quality, each and every item filled with memories and the air filled with a dusty peace. Facing the window was a high backed upholstered chair in a deep crimson, and in the old seat was a man. His head rested upon one of the wings, hair white as snow and flecked with gray, mustache still bristling out upon his upper lip, though the hair atop his head had thinned considerably. Deep lines traced their way across his face, care worn wrinkles around his eyes, worry and sympathy etched in his brow. Deep lines framing his nose, mouth and chin, and as he slept, eyes closed gently, deep breaths moving his chest up and down, wearing a vest and shirt with a blanket across his lap, he was the picture of peaceful venerability.

Somewhere in another room, a door creaked open, and a shaft of light fell inside, casting a silhouette, and the door closed again, a fleeting shadow. The boards of the floor creaked as someone moved away from the front door and entered the snug living room, light from the window slowly revealing his features. Quietly, slowly, he crossed the room and came to stand beside his friend, watching the other man sleep. A smile slowly stretched across his worn features. Reaching out one wizened hand, he gently placed it upon the other's shoulder.

The touch roused the other man, and he blinked for a moment, discerning his surroundings. When his sight caught upon his companion he smiled up at him, and laughed with a care worn voice, "It seems I have dozed off again, Holmes."

"It is no matter, I have just returned from my walk and if my nose does not deceive me, my dear Watson, dinner will be soon."

"My, my! That time already? Did you visit the bees?"

"The bees take care of themselves now, Watson."

"Ah, yes, I forgot."

"Let us go check the progress of the meal."

"Good idea," replied Watson as he slowly rose out of his chair, joints aching, but not minding so much because Holmes was there.

Together they made their way to the dinning room, which then lead to the kitchen, moving slowly for they had no reason to hurry.

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As she reached the crest of the next hill, she smiled. She could see her destination and was glad the long walk was over, for now. With quickening step she approached the mansion, and as she reached its gates she did not head for the main door, but rather for the servants entrance. Walking up the few steps so the door hidden behind a small wall of ivy she knocked and was immediately answered. The door swung open to reveal a young maid, "We've been expectin' yeh, Thatcher is waitin' in the kitchens."

"Thank you," she replies with a small nod and heads in the direction of the kitchen because she knew the house well.

She made her way swiftly and silently and when she crossed the threshold of the kitchen she saw the form of a man, hunched over from years of work, hair gone completely white.

"Hello, brother."

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His hands had been so cold, so cold.

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The air was heavy with impending rain, dark gloom covering the sky, trees bare, striped of their leaves by the autumn rain. That day promised to live up to its gloomy autumn repute. Long ago had the other mourners left, but one man remained, heavy black coat cutting into the grey gloom, fading grass, cold headstones. Before him was a newly dug hole, a mound of bare earth at its side, and in the pit lay the world. In his hand he held a rose of such a dark red it was almost black. He stood as still as age would let him, gazing down at the box, barely comprehending. How could this cold thing contain that which had once held so much warmth, so much light? From his listless fingers the rose fell, and finally the clouds broke and it began to rain. Someone took him by the shoulder and led him away. He was no longer near his prime, and a hired hand was responsible to see that he took care of himself. She would have felt terribly at fault if anything happened to him. As it was, he would have stayed be it rain or snow, or any other inclement weather, if no one had come to take him away.

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"I was wondering if you still, perhaps, have a place for me or are at least able to keep me until I can find other work."

"Well, yes, but what has happened? Have you been dismissed?"

"No…."

"Evalyn, what is it then? I thought he was still alive?"

"He is, but I fear it will not be so long."

"Well, the man was younger than his companion, he should have a few years left."

She sighed at sat down at the worn table next to her brother. The kitchen was large and light seeped in from windows all along one of the walls, but because they day was so dim, the light seem thin and wan. Gazing earnestly into her brother's eyes, she spoke, "Have you ever heard or noticed that, when it comes to old couples who care for each other dearly, if the wife dies first, the husband does not last much longer? I fear this is something similar."

"_What_, you aren't saying—"

"No, no, I'm not one to decide if they had an sort of indecent relations or not, but in any case, they did care about each other greatly. He relied very much upon his late friend and it pains me to look upon him now, bent as if he bore all the world's sorrow upon his shoulders… I just… I only wanted to make sure I was welcome here…."

"Of course, always."

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It was mid morning, Holmes had tread carefully from his room to the neighboring one and quietly opened the door. As time wore on it seemed to take him longer and longer to get ready in the morning, but now there was no hurry. The worn wood on the door had paint flaking from the bottom and the handle was slightly discolored from all the hands that had turned it for so many years, many before Holmes had moved here. The old hinges swung open with a light creek and revealed a room filled with light tinted golden from the drapes over the window. Taking up most of the room was a large bed, and it was not such a big room to begin with. Atop it lay a homely quilt and in it lay an elderly man, sleeping. Holmes moved around his dearest friend's bed and came to sit upon a stool between the window and Watson.

He sat there for a long while, just watching Watson sleep. Watching as his breath steadily began to quicken, ever so slightly, as he shifted in his sleep, as his eyes fluttered opened and closed, though he was not, as of yet, quite awake. Holmes had always derived a curious sort of pleasure from watching his friend rise in the morning; he could not quite explain it, but it might have had something to do with taking in all the signs of his friends eminent reanimation and the subtle joy rooted in the impatience caused by being forced to wait.

In any case, it was a comparatively short wait for his friend's eyes to slide open, and slowly begin to take in their surroundings. For a moment Watson gazed around, eyes unfocused, and when they landed upon his friend they came suddenly into focus. He smiled.

And Holmes smiled back, not one of his usual grins tinged with wicked humor, but a slight curving at the corners of the mouth, almost as if in sorrow.

In that moment, time stopped, if only temporarily.

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Evalyn tread her way back home and sighed, deep in thought. Really, the man in her care was just as eccentric as ever, but he grew on one with time. So, perhaps it was natural that she was a little worried; though, at the same time she knew and accepted the inevitable. After all, it wasn't her decision who should live and who should die, even if it meant her livelihood and a bit of heartache. She ought not to be selfish; Holmes had enough of an ego for the both of them! The corners of her lips tugged up at the thought.

Perhaps the end is not such a bad thing.

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A/N: Here I am, my first Sherlock Holmes fic on the net, and I'm writing about something I hardly know, does it get any better? Well, the truth of the matter is, I wanted to write a cute little interaction between Holmes and Watson, and this idea came to me one night while I was trying to fall asleep. I think for them I have always wanted peace at the end of the long road. I wanted to make a connection, which I will not explain here, but I hope my idea gets across. I don't know if it will, so please tell me what you got out of it (like how it made you feel, what the relationship between the characters was like, the main point or tone of the story, things like that.) I would appreciate it greatly. (I'm not going to tell you my idea right out, to keep there from being biases.)

Sorry 'bout the bees, I couldn't help it ; They were always so awkward and funny.

As for the reason why the one servant has dialect and the others don't is because Evalyn and her brother are supposed to be "higher up" the servant hierarchy so they talk better and the one at the door is more of a common type. Oh my, that was terrible English just in that last sentence… oh well. It's late… I'm half asleep… do forgive me for massacring this paragraph.


End file.
